Claire Voyant (10 page)

“There's nothin' to think about.”

“Oh, please. That's nuts. I mean, granted, it isn't a common name. But honestly, what are the odds there's a connection here?”

“I'll tell you the odds.” Grams collapsed in the chair and knotted the tissue around her thumb. “Sit down.”

“I am sitting,” I said. “See? I'm right here next to you.”
Yup. We're getting you into this assisted living facility in the nick of time
.

“No, I mean sit on the floor.”

“Why?”

“'Cause you're too big for me now…for when you fall.”

“I'm going to fall?”

“I know how you don't like nothin' with a scary ending.”

“Okay, you do realize I'm not a kid anymore, right? It's not like that night we watched
Psycho
and I screamed so loud your crazy neighbor started banging on the door. What was her name? The one with that big birthmark in the middle of her cheek?”

“Mrs. Alberti.”

“Yeah. Good old Mrs. Alberti. Remember she said she thought there was a murder going on?”

“That was fun-nee.” Grams slapped her knee. “Barges in with that head full of curlers, and the furry slippers with those dogs on her toes…. Like that would scare off a killer.”

“I still can't believe you let me stay up so late to watch
Psycho
. Of all movies, Grams. My God, how old was I? Eight? Nine?”

“Six and a half.”

“No way.”

“Sure. I remember 'cause it was right after your mother had that bad accident in Waldbaum's parking lot. Nobody told me at first. They knew what it would do to me. Brought back all the terrible memories of Gary's crash…. Anyway, I was staying with you kids, but every night, I'd watch a little television. Sometimes a good picture would come on. Half the time I'd find you curled up next to me on the couch…you and me…we always got along good 'cause we knew the rest of the family was nuts.”

“Just keep going with the story.” I squeezed her hand. “I promise I won't scream.”

“That's what you always said,” she sighed. “So where was I?”

My speciality. When someone yelled “Line,” I always knew where we were. “You're at the part where Penelope just had the baby.”

“Yeah. Yeah…so now we're home with Hannah, and everybody is crazy about her. She started out this little nothing
pishelach,
but in a few weeks she's got nice color, she's eating…she didn't like to sleep so much, but Gary, he was good. He could hold you in a certain way, like a football, and like magic, no more crying.”

“Wait, Grams. You mean Hannah. He could hold Hannah.”

“What?”

“Just now…when you were telling the story. You were talking about Uncle Gary. How he could make the baby stop crying, and you said ‘you.' But his daughter was Hannah.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.”

“Oy, oy, oy.”
She tapped the side of her head. “My mind. Sometimes it goes a little haywire. Grandpa Harry, he always used to say, ‘Gert, you don't know how to tell a story.'”

“You're doing fine. Just keep going.” But for the first time that I could recall, Grams was at a loss for words. “Yoo-hoo? Anyone home? You were just getting to the good part. Don't zone out on me now.”

“Sorry. I can't seem to remember the rest. I'm old, you know…memory loss…”

“Oh, give me a break. You're sharp as a tack when you want to be. What happened next?”

“Finish your pancakes.”

“If you finish the story.”

“Maybe another time. I gotta take my pills now, otherwise I'm no good for the day.”

“But you can't just leave me hanging. It's like when I read a new script. I can't stand the suspense, so I go right to the end. Just tell me what happened to Penelope and Hannah. When's the last time you saw them? How come nobody ever talks about them? God, it must be terrible for you to have this other granddaughter you never get to see.”

“I see her,” she blurted.

“Are you serious? You know where Hannah is?”

She nodded.

“I don't believe it. You're telling me I have a first cousin who would be about my age, but nobody ever said, hey, you know what? Maybe she and Claire should meet?”

Grams' eyes welled up. “When she was little, she was with me every day.”

“You mean in your heart.”

“I mean I'd drive over to her house, or she'd get dropped off by me.”

“Wait, wait, wait. That's not even possible. I was at your house every day, and I never saw another little girl. Don't you think I would have noticed? Said, hey, Grams. Who's the spare kid?”

“…I took her to the park, to ballet classes. I taught her to read, took her to our house in the mountains every summer….”

“Okay, now you're really starting to freak me out. It was me, Adam, and Lindsey up in the Catskills. And then Aunt Iris and Uncle Herbie would bring Alison and Hilary after camp. Trust me. There was no little girl named Hannah.”

“Yes, there was.” Grams' lips quivered. “We called her by a different name.”

“Well, that makes absolutely no sense.”

“We had a big problem after she was born, see,” she sobbed. “A
mess like you wouldn't believe. First we bury our son. Then we sit
shiva
. Then, next thing we know, Penelope runs away in the middle of the night.”

“Are you serious? She ran away with the baby?”

“WITHOUT the baby!”

“Oh my God. That's awful.”

“We found this cockamamie note in the stroller saying Hannah was better off without her. And that was that…a seven-week-old baby's got no father, no mother….”

“What did you do? Did Penelope come back? What happened to Hannah?”

Grams took a deep breath. “What happened to her is…now she's this beautiful young lady.”

“Well, wait. How do you know that?”

“I know because I see her from time to time.”

“This is nuts. If the two of you have a relationship, how come you never mentioned her before? Where does she live? What does she look like?”

“What does she look like? Actually”—she blinked—“she looks like…you.”

“Me? Really?”

“I bet I couldn't tell you apart.”

“They say everyone has a twin.” I shrugged. “I just wish you'd let me meet her.”

“Fine. You want to meet her?” Grams led me by the hand into the bathroom. “Let's go.”

“What are you doing? Where are we going?”

“I'm introducing you to Hannah.” She cupped my chin. “Take a good look in the mirror.”

“‘Take a good look in the mirror,'” I mimicked her. “Don't take this wrong, Grams. But you've completely gone off the deep end.”

“I know, my
shayna madel
. But listen to me. You wanted to meet Hannah, and here she is.”

It took me a moment to follow her twisted trail. Then a ripple of nausea roared through my innards like a monstrous wave crashing
into shore. “OH MY GOD!” I grabbed hold of the sink to catch my fall. “OH MY GOD!” My heart nearly pounded out of my chest. “Me?” I shrieked. “Me?”

Grams looked away, too frightened to examine the crime scene.

“NO!” I screamed. “No, no, no, no…. How can I be Hannah? I'm Claire. Claire Greene.”

“No, darling. You're both.”

“I'm both?” I repeated before slumping onto the toilet seat and crying into a towel. How could I be both? My parents were Lenny and Roberta. My brother was Adam, my sister was Lindsey…Grams was out of her mind. She was doing this to get attention. Or maybe she was overdosing on all those drugs she took. Soon she would be one of those unforgettable
20/20
stories: “Florida's delusional, granny-tripping psychopaths.”

“A million times I said to your mother, tell her already,” Grams rambled. “And she'd say, what good's it gonna do her? And I'd say, if it was you, wouldn't you want to know the truth? And she'd say no. And then I'd say, fine. If you're not gonna tell her, I'll tell her….”

I stopped listening. All I could think was if I wasn't me, if I was really someone else, then it was time to find out if the gun in the hamper was loaded, for surely I would never recover from the shock that my whole life had been one huge lie. Or that I had been so deaf, dumb, and blind I needed an eighty-four-year-old woman to point out what should have been obvious.

Suddenly images clicked in my head like a roll of film being developed. One at a time a vivid picture slid down the shoot: my mother's refusal to talk about her kid brother…Grams' slip of the tongue about Uncle Gary holding me…the young, unwed mother who ran away without her baby…the way I stuck out in family photos like a green bean among fat tomatoes…Grams' relationship with Hannah that was identical to her relationship with me…my family's spooked reaction to hearing the name Fabrikant….

I flipped up the toilet seat lid and upchucked fear and phlegm.

“
Oy
. Look what you're doing,” Grams scolded. “I just washed the floor, and the girl don't come till Friday.”

“Hey! Fuck the floor, okay?” I yelled into the cavernous blue bowl.

“This is what I was afraid of…you getting sick over this.”

“What the hell did you expect?” I gagged. “You've had thirty years to get used to the idea…I've had, what? Thirty seconds. I can't fucking believe this…. I'm adopted…adopted….”

“Better than being thrown out with the garbage.”

“Oh my God, that's right…I was almost an abortion.”

“I prayed every night she'd change her mind.”

“Do you swear you're telling me the truth?” I shouted, my hair sticky with retch. “This isn't your way of getting back at us because you think no one cares about you?”

“It's the God's honest truth, honey.” She grabbed more tissues. “It's a shock. I know.”

“A shock?” I choked. “No. Uh-uh. Sorry. A shock is when you win a contest or…or you flunk your road test! This is a fucking nightmare. How could I be someone else? I'm Claire Greene!”

I flushed the toilet, then balanced on my knees, the cool tiles digging into my skin. “This is insane. I don't know who I am! What my real name is…. Wait. What
is
my real name?”

“
Oy
. You're not gonna like this.”

“Oh. Like it's any better to find out you've been deceived your whole life?”

“So fine. You wanna hear your name? I'll tell you your name. You were born Hannah Claire.”

“Hannah Claire what?” I pounded my fist on the wall.

“Hannah Claire…Fabrikant.”

I let out a wail so shrill and piercing, the sound reverberated through the near-vacant apartment. And though my raw throat burned with dread, there was something else I had to know. “And who was Abe?”

Grams steadied herself by clinging to the bathroom door. “You'll never believe.”

“Who was he, goddamn it?” I yelled. “Tell me right now!”

“I'm trying, believe me.” She hollered back. “
Oy
. Of all the people to drop dead on your lap, God had to make him Penelope's idiot father!”

“OH MY GOD!”

“How's that for a fine how do you do? You finally meet your grandfather, then ker-plop, he's gone. Well, at least thank God you got to talk to him for a while.”

“Nooooooo.” I vomited again, then collapsed on the foul-smelling floor. Suddenly I recalled yesterday's conversation at La Guardia.

“Will your grandfather be needing any special assistance?” the gate agent had asked as she waited for my boarding pass to print out. “My grandfather?” I said. Frankly, it was a little late for special assistance, as both of them were dead. “Aren't you two traveling together?…Your seat assignment is next to his…I thought I noticed a resemblance.”

What a nightmare. My life had just become a Stephen King novel. The wicked gate agent seats an unsuspecting girl next to a stranger, who is really her grandfather. Then he dies on her lap, and comes back to haunt her. Damn! The only thing I hated more than Stephen King was irony!

I
MMEDIATELY FOLLOWING AN ACCIDENT, SURVIVORS SAY THAT THEY
experience a series of involuntary responses. The body's way of coping with the sudden impact of catastrophic injuries. So when I was clobbered by the emotional equivalent of a six-car pileup, instinctively I wanted to downshift into a fight-or-flight mode. But my grandmother said, “No ma'am. Nothin' doing.” I could not go to the aftershock party like everyone else. Better I should wash my face, sit down at the table, and finish my pancakes.

“Eat pancakes?” I just looked at her. “Are you freakin' kidding me?”

“Trust me. You'll feel better.”

“Why? Are they made with Paxil?” I knew my grandmother had a few short circuits, but even she should be able to appreciate that it would take me years, not minutes, to recover from this horrifying discovery. And enough money to keep one lucky therapist busy till the day he or she died.

“What good's it gonna do you to sit and sulk?” Grams tried to woo me from my fetal position in the corner of her bedroom.

“Gee, I don't know,” I cried. “I haven't had a chance to try.”

“Maybe you'll feel better if you hear the whole story.”

“Oooh. That's what I was thinking. Let's talk over cyanide cocktails.”

But before I could sidle up to the bar there was a knock at the
door. My grandmother's next-door neighbor, Lillian, had heard screams and wanted us to know we had nothing to worry about. She had just called the police.

Talk about irony. Grams had once told me she was going to call the cops on Lillian. To report her suspicions of a busy brothel. How else to explain the comings and goings of so many men, and the sounds of Sinatra blaring at eight o'clock in the morning?

From my floor-level view in the bedroom, I could tell that Lillian had rushed right over, as she was still in uniform. There she stood in a black see-through nightie, which, trust me, you didn't want to see through. And wasn't one leg of hers shorter than the other? Only in Miami could an aging gimp prostitute with penciled-on eyebrows have a steady following.

Then I felt shame and confusion. I was in the middle of a life-altering crisis. I should be smashing the last of Grams' lamps. Threatening to use the gun in the hamper. Not concerning myself with an old lady who had found a clever way to supplement her Social Security income.

“What do you mean, Claire knows everything now?” Lillian's bellow got my attention. “
Oy vey,
Gert! Roberta's gonna wring your little neck.”

“He dropped dead on her lap, for Christ's sake. I should just say nothing?”

“Well, if you ask me, she got this far without knowing the truth—why rock the boat?”

“You don't know Claire. She's my tough one. She'll be fine.”

“I hope you're right. 'Cause all you hear on the news today are stories about adopted kids going crazy looking for their real families. They go searching on that damn Intercom…. Turns everyone's life upside down. Who needs it?”

“It's not the Intercom, you old fool. It's the Interstate…. And Claire won't be out there looking for no one! She's got all the family she needs!”

Now I trembled in the corner, while gagging into a washcloth. Grams was wrong. I would be exactly like those kids who scoured the
country in search of their true identity. It reminded me of that adorable book I made her read me every night. The one about the little baby duck who fell from the tree and didn't know who his mother was. What was the name of it? Duh, Claire!
Are You My Mother?
How freaky that a story I loved so much as a child would turn out to be MY story, too.

I had visions of tapping women on the shoulder at nail salons. “Excuse me. By any chance are you my mother?” Or at the gym. “Hi. You wouldn't happen to be my mother?” It made me feel so lost and alone.

Furthermore, if a virtual stranger, Lillian the Lover, could be privy to my
E! True Hollywood Story,
who else knew the truth? Adam and Lindsey? All my aunts, uncles, and cousins (were they still even related to me)? Family friends? My orthodontist? Everyone but me?

“Well, thanks for your two cents, Lil,” Grams spit. “Is that how much you get to kiss mens' pee-pees?”

“Why, I never!” Lillian gasped.

“That's not what I hear!”

“This is the thanks I get for trying to be a good neighbor!” The lady in black stormed out.

“You wanna be a good neighbor?” Grams yelled. “Open your door and close your legs!”

“Who the hell needs that
meshugina
tellin' me what's good for you?” Grams walked into the bedroom and stood over me, hands over hips, just like when I was four and banished to the corner for drawing on her living room walls. “Damn right we're your family. Nothing changes that.”

“I can't believe the happy hooker knew before I did.” I gagged on
my tears. “That's what you do all day? Talk about your pitiful granddaughter with the deep, dark secret?”

“This is Florida.” Grams shrugged. “It's a right-to-talk state.”

“You don't know how stupid I feel.” Tears were free-falling on my lap. “How did I not figure this out myself? I never looked like them…never related to them…. I can't believe they kept this from me all these years.”

“Ach! What do they ever agree on? Nothing! Was it a good time? A bad time? Were you too young? Too old? Too tall, too short? Too this, too that?”

“But if they'd just told me when I was little, I'd be over it by now!”

“That's what
I
said.” She threw up her arms.

“Wait, wait, wait.” I took a deep breath. “Are Adam and Lindsey adopted, too?”

She shook her head.

“Oh my God,” I screamed. “You know what this means, Grams? It means my entire life has been one huge, fucking lie. Nothing that happened, happened to me. Do you understand? The whole time I was someone else. This person who was being betrayed.”

“Baloney! You don't know nothin'!” She rammed her hands in her apron pockets and walked out. “Nothin' at all!”

“Oh, believe me, I know all I need to know!” I cried.

I might have sat sobbing in the corner for days if not for four precipitously timed calls. It made me wonder if their synchronization had somehow been orchestrated by a higher power.

At first it took me a moment to realize my cell was even ringing. Then I was in too much of a fog to remember to look at the caller ID. Pity, I could have avoided another isn't-this-so-exciting call from Elyce, the 24/7 fiancée.

Thank God she was finally able to reach me, she said. And did I get her other messages? She wasn't sure because sometimes when you're out of town, the voice mails don't go through, and there was so much she had to tell me, and she hoped that I absolutely loved the dress she'd chosen for me, and not to worry, she wasn't going to make us all look like cookie-cutter bridesmaids.

“Elyce. Wait. Hold on,” I butted in. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this.” (I was still crying, so the tears weren't fake.) There's been a terrible tragedy. A death in the family.
My real family.
So this isn't a good time. In fact, now I'm not even sure if I'm coming back to New York.
Ever.
I'm really sorry. I don't want to ruin your big day, but I think you should probably ask someone else.”

But no, of course she wouldn't dream of asking anyone else. She was sorry for my loss, but certainly by a year from November I'd be fine, and not to worry, she'd have Kleinfeld's put a hold on the dress until I got back, and please, if there was anything she could do to help, I should let her know, because as her oldest and dearest friend, she wanted me to know that I was like family to her.

Great. Now I was like family to everyone.

Just as I wondered how to beg off, the doorbell saved the day. “Elyce, I really have to go, hon. The police are arresting my grandmother for illegal possession of a firearm.”

A normal person would concede that this was an emergency situation, but not the ever-helpful Elyce. She wouldn't hang up until informing me that Ira's uncle was a big trial lawyer in Boca, and to let her know if we needed representation.

“We're fine,” Grams said to the cops when I walked in. “But if you want to crack a really big case”—she loved her Ed Sullivan voice—“check out next door. Action like you wouldn't believe.”

“Sorry for the false alarm, Officers,” I sniffed. “I'm the one who screamed before. We just received word about a death in the family…my grandfather.”

Naturally they were trained to be respectful of my loss, but from the way the two high-testosterone cops ogled me in my running gear, the only thing they looked sorry about was not being able to cuff me and turn me into a squeeze toy in the back of the squad car.

It took several minutes to satisfy their curiosity about the furnitureless apartment and to snoop around under the guise of doing a thorough investigation. Thankfully they weren't all that thorough, as they didn't think to check a laundry hamper for an unlicensed weapon.

I had never been so grateful to see two people leave. Finally I
could jump in the shower and have my much-deserved meltdown. And not a moment too soon, as I so reeked of puke; my body odor offended even me. But then there were further delays, like on a smog alert day at LAX.

God help me, but of all times for Pablo to call and ask if I'd made a decision about coming to work for them…Given my mental state, frankly I'd forgotten we'd even met, let alone discussed employment opportunities. But before I could answer, he wanted to remind me of a few things.

One, he had seniority over me; two, he got first crack at the comp tickets to any premieres; and three, if I hadn't guessed, he was in a loving, committed relationship with Raphael that he did not want to have fucked up by some petty coworker who had jealous fits over the preferential treatment.

“I'll be honest, Pablo.” I blew into a tissue. “I've just received some very shocking news about my family, and I haven't had time to think about this.”

“Well, what's to think about, sweet stuff? It's a great job, great pay, great people…”

“It's none of those things, and you know it.”

“True. But we were hoping you'd look past that.”

“To be honest, I don't think I'd like working down here.”

“Oh pish-tish. Who doesn't want to work in the Sunshine State? We've got the greatest beaches, the hottest clubs, no snow. And here's a real attention-getter. No state income tax.”

Oooh. Big plus. I worry constantly about my tax bracket.
“That's all great, but I'm freaked out at the moment…not a good time to be working for Photographer Barbie.”

“He's really a wonderful person, Claire. And think of the possibilities. Sometimes we're the first to know which producers are casting for what roles. It could give you a real leg up.”

“Is that true?”

“Of course it's true. Pablo doesn't lie. Well, maybe a little fib now and then, but I swear on my cutie petutie, you could be in the heart of the action working here.
Variety
has nothin' on us!”

“Okay,” I sighed.

“Okay as in, yes, I'll do it, or okay as in, I'll think about it some more?”

“Okay as in, I'm about to have a meltdown. Why not get paid while I'm losing my mind?”

“Oh, that's marvy! Raphael will be just tickled when I tell him. Be here at ten tomorrow.”

“No. Sorry. I need the day off. For Abe Fabrikant's funeral.”
My grandfather's funeral.

“No, no, no. Uh-uh, darling. No vacation days for the first two months.”

“Bullshit. You can't count it as a vacation day if I didn't even start yet. I'll come in for a few days next week, see if I like the job, then decide if it's worth it to go get my stuff in New York.”

“Oh, fine. But I may have to note this little postponement in your permanent record.”

“You do that, Pablo. Then take your little pen and shove it up your cutie petutie.”

 

I was two steps from the bathroom when my cell rang again. Of all people, it was Marly Becker. Seems Viktor was needed at the airport, so she had volunteered to shop for me. The dear girl knew every inch of designer selling space in Miami, and was actually calling from the Versace boutique to ask my style preferences. And was I sure I wore a size six, because Drew had happened to mention that I was a rather large girl.

My ass he said that,
I thought. But, of course, it would be impolite to kick a gift card in the mouth. (Versace? Oh my God, I adored Versace). And why be petty and tell her that Drew alluded to the fact that she was lazy, manipulative, and felt entitled to everything served on a Tiffany platter?

I frankly don't know how I had the wherewithal to hold a girl-type conversation, but somehow I managed to sound not only polite, but coherent. Then I actually heard myself say how much I appreciated her help, and I was sure whatever she picked out would be perfect,
and to please have Viktor leave any packages with the doorman because I was taking my grandmother to the doctor.

Finally I could get into the shower. Then I heard my cell ring yet again. Was I stupid enough to run back out in a small bath towel? No, that's why God invented voice mail.

On the other hand, what if it was someone I wanted to talk to? Someone to whom I could unburden myself, confide my devastating secret? It would certainly calm my nerves to hear a compassionate, sensitive voice on the other end. Someone who could reassure me that the rest of my life was not doomed. Someone like Sydney. Or Drew.